


To Start as Soon as Possible

by p1013



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, Dirty Talk, Humor, Idiots in Love, Jealousy, Light BDSM, M/M, Meddling Pansy Parkinson, Meddling Ron Weasley, Mutual Masturbation, Mutual Pining, POV Multiple, Rimming, Shameless fluff at the end, The tags make it sound so much more serious than it is, This is basically smutty fluff, fuck buddies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-04
Updated: 2020-04-04
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:13:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23482927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/p1013/pseuds/p1013
Summary: The first time Harry Potter goes home with Draco Malfoy is brilliant. The second time is a mistake. Now, on the twenty-third-and-a-half, he thinks it might be a disaster.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 44
Kudos: 770





	To Start as Soon as Possible

**Author's Note:**

  * For [slytherco](https://archiveofourown.org/users/slytherco/gifts).



Harry doesn't know how they're here again. Draco's got Harry pinned to the wall outside Draco's flat, his long, thin, maddening fingers wrapped so tight around Harry's wrists, there will be bruises there in the morning. His long, lean body is pressed up against Harry's, and the heavy weight of Draco's cock is pressed hard into the crease of Harry's hip. The git trails his lips over Harry's pulse, slow and agonizing, the caress like a ghostly touch that Harry would arch into if he could bloody move, but he's pinned and aching, and dammit, this should not be happening again.

But as he thinks it, Draco bites at Harry's collarbone, and his vision goes white around the edges.

"You need to fuck me," he gasps into the empty hallway. "Right now."

Draco laughs and bites at Harry's skin again. "So bossy." He releases Harry's wrists and trails his fingers down over the tendons and muscles of Harry's arms, Draco's touch leaving shivers behind. "But since you asked…"

They stumble into Draco's flat, and they don't even make it to the bedroom this time. Instead, Draco presses Harry over the edge of his kitchen island, pulls Harry's trousers and pants down, and rims him until he's crying and clinging to the countertop, his voice a twisted wreck of itself as he pleads for Draco to fuck him.

Draco slaps Harry's ass so hard it stings. The sound of skin-on-skin blends with his panting breaths, and then there's cool lube pressed against his hole and Draco's wicked fingers, and his thick cock, and Harry could not give two shits about anything more than coming with that hard length up his ass, pressed tight against his prostate.

He comes all over Draco's cabinets, and he doesn't care when Draco comes inside of him, only to finger fuck his spunk deeper inside of Harry, Draco's voice a breathless murmur against the shell of his ear while he tells Harry that he'll carry Draco inside him, feel his come dripping from Harry's used and loose hole while he stumbles his way home in the morning.

Harry shouldn't like it as much as he does.

But then Draco presses a gentle kiss to the middle of his upper back, right over where his spine meets his shoulders, and the heat of Draco's lips against one of Harry's most vulnerable places makes his heart ache. Draco tells Harry to meet him in the shower, and when he pulls away, Harry stays bent over the island, clothes around his ankles and heart on his sleeve.

Draco washes Harry's hair, pushing the dark curls away from his eyes, his fingers massaging Harry's scalp with smooth, practiced motions that have Harry's eyes drooping shut. Draco wraps him in a warm towel, tells him to get into bed, that Draco will be just a minute longer. And when Harry crawls under the sheets, naked and spent, Draco crawls in after him, his arm wrapped around the breadth of Harry's waist to pull him closer to Draco's body, Draco's lips pressed against the base of Harry's skull in a kiss that turns to the soft, easy inhale and exhale of sleep.

Harry doesn't fall asleep as easily.

* * *

If anyone asked Harry about it—which they won't; his friends know better than to call attention to what is clearly going to be a disaster for everyone involved—he'd tell them that what he and Malfoy have is nothing more than sex. The simmering tension between them, left over from school and only made worse by working near each other every day, needed some kind of release. And since it's bad form to punch fellow Aurors, especially the ones partnered to one's best friend, fucking somehow seemed like a better middle ground. That first time, Harry got drunk at a party or a bar (or maybe both?), he found Draco standing on the edges of the room, nearly empty glass in his hand and a bored expression on his face, and Harry asked if he wanted to get out of there.

Harry woke up with his face buried in a pillow that wasn't his and a masculine arm tossed across his lower back. When Harry turned over, thinking he might be up for another round, he froze when he saw Malfoy's face, slack and vulnerable in sleep. The man was fit, had been for years. But with the morning sun casting the bedroom in a dim glow and his normally tense face relaxed, it had struck Harry that Draco Malfoy was devastating, and Harry was not mature enough to deal with that revelation while simultaneously hungover.

But Malfoy had pulled him closer, sleepy and smug, and they'd made out until one or the other of them had taken things in hand, and they'd come together.

Again.

And now it's a somewhat regular thing. They haven't talked about it because talking about it would mean being mature and honest, and Harry isn't ready for that kind of thing with his childhood-enemy-sometimes-sex-partner. He's hinted to Malfoy—who insisted Harry call him Draco after Harry topped him for the first time—that he doesn't have any expectations for this, that as long as everyone is clean, exclusivity isn't a requirement, and that's been the extent of their talking about… whatever this is.

So, he's in an open sexual definitely-not-a-relationship with Draco Malfoy, and he's somehow managed to fall in love with the posh git in the process.

As Harry Apparates to 12 Grimmauld Place, he tries to figure out when, exactly, it happened. It's embarrassing that he can't pinpoint it. Love shouldn't sneak up on you like this, not when you aren't expecting it and need anything but this type of emotional complication in your life. But somewhere between that first, drunken, half-forgotten night and Draco's lips pressing against the line of his spine, Harry's found himself lost in warm thoughts and tender feelings, and it's honestly enough to make him embarrassed for himself.

Maybe it was when Draco sidled up to him at the Leaky, pretending like they didn't know each other, and bought him a drink with an umbrella in it. Or maybe it was that time they ran into each other after work, and Harry pulled Draco into an alleyway around the corner from the Ministry entrance to kiss the breath from Draco's lungs and leave him, panting, wrecked against a brick wall. It might've happened when Draco started leaving coffee at Harry's desk in the morning, or when Harry started swinging by Draco and Ron's shared office, ostensibly to visit Ron, though he always perched on Draco's desk instead.

It would be so much easier if it were just amazing sex. And it _is_ amazing. Harry doesn't think he's come so often or so hard in his life. Draco's wicked Slytherin intelligence is just as good at solving crime as figuring out how to make Harry fall apart. They aren't at each other's places every night, but it's a damn near thing. And whether it's the kitchen island or the couch or the rug in front of the fireplace—it is rarely the bed—they fuck each other into oblivion. There's no set pattern to it. Sometimes Draco tops, sometimes Harry does. Sometimes they don't even get to that point, just helplessly rutting against each other in various stages of undress, while they call each other names and force orgasms from each other like curses.

It's glorious, and Harry hates how much he loves it.

Hates how much he's coming to love Draco.

God, he really is ridiculous. He slams the front door behind him, and Kreacher stands in the entryway, thin arms crossed, hooked nose turned down in disapproval.

"Master did not come home last night," he says, his voice sounding like a displeased and rusty hinge. "Again."

"Kreacher." Harry groans the elf's name, sounding more petulant than he'd like to admit. "Like I told you before, it's fine."

"Master was with the Malfoy boy again." Kreacher sniffs. "Master should be courting him properly."

It is not the first time that Kreacher has said that to Harry, and it's not the first time that Harry ignores him. Instead, he makes his way to the master bedroom and undresses. There's a faint bruise on his collarbone that looks like Draco's teeth, and he trails his fingers over it, sighing at the way the mark—and his heart—aches.

He's an idiot. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

* * *

Draco doesn't mean to bury his face in the pillow that Harry uses. It's not his fault that it ends up there, his nose pressed into the pillow case as he takes great, deep breaths, catching a hint of Harry's shampoo and the distinctly musky smell of his skin hidden beneath that.

That would be pathetic, and Draco Malfoy is anything but.

It's just that the pillow is slightly softer than the one Draco uses, and it's cool to the touch, and sometimes, Draco likes laying on his front, rather than his back. His head is still muzzy from the night before, and this is just about finding a more comfortable place for his headache to blossom. It's coincidental that the pillow smells like Harry's hair.

Or maybe it isn't. Draco sighs and rolls onto his back, bringing the pillow with him. He wraps his arms around it, closes his eyes, and spends the next five minutes thinking of every curse word he knows.

Since he's fluent in three languages, it's a very long list to get through.

Eventually, he puts the Potter Pillow aside, finds a pair of pyjama pants, and calls Pansy on the Floo.

"You did it again, didn't you?" she asks without any preamble. "You never Floo me on Saturday mornings unless you've made a complete idiot of yourself with Potter, and it's a Saturday morning."

"Pansy—"

"Don't you Pansy me. Let me come through."

Her impeccable outfit only has a bit of soot on it when she steps from the fireplace. Hands on her hips, she gives Draco a long look, eyes traveling from the top of his head to the bottom of his bare feet. She sighs again. "You are a disaster."

"I know." He falls backwards onto the couch, staring up at his ceiling. Pansy stands over him, expression a mix of pity and amusement. "What do I do, Pans?"

"First, you're going to take a shower. You smell like a bar mat at a strip club, and not the classy kind. Once that's done, we're going to have tea, and we're going to figure out what in the world you think you're doing." She holds her hand out to him, and he takes it, letting her pull him to his feet. "You, shower. Me, tea."

He feels a bit more alive once he washes the night before off his skin. There's only a slight twinge when he thinks about how he's washing away the last vestiges of Harry's touches from the night before.

 _Merde. Schei_ _ß_ e. Shit.

Pansy hands him a steaming cup when he settles next to her on the couch. He's still in his pyjamas and feeling very slovenly next to her immaculate put-togetherness. She's kicked her shoes off, though, and her socks have smiley faces on them, and it makes him feel just a little bit better.

"Now, my beloved," she says, though the endearment sounds a bit too much like _moron_ to Draco, "tell me what you've managed to do."

He groans. "It's nothing, Pansy. It's just a casual thing, honestly."

"Right."

"We're having fun. It's nothing serious. We're not even exclusive."

"Understood."

"It's a sometimes thing."

"Draco."

"Yes."

"How many nights this week have you spent in his company?"

Draco thinks, does some quick arithmetic, and then takes a sip of his tea instead of answering.

"And how many nights have you spent in the company of others?"

She's really done a lovely job with this cup. Perfectly brewed, just enough sugar.

"That's what I thought." She sighs and looks at him with confused pity. "Why are you insisting that there isn't something between the two of you?"

This part is going to sting. He takes a deep breath, hikes up his metaphorical big boy pants, and puts it out into the world. "Because there isn't, not for him."

"Oh, love." She puts her cup down, then takes his and sets it next to hers on the low table in front of the couch. Carefully, she holds his hands in her own, gentle as if he might break with the touch. "We have to make him suffer."

He tries to pull his hands away, but her grip is like iron. "Pansy!"

"No, listen to me. Are you absolutely sure he doesn't have feelings for you?"

"I mean…" Draco swallows. "Maybe?"

Her pity is washed away by irritation. "Draco Lucius Malfoy. Do not make me strangle you."

"I don't know, okay!" Finally freeing his hands, he throws them in the air. "I don't know! He lets me hold him after, and he has a side of the bed, and he left a toothbrush here the other weekend. So… I don't know. Maybe."

"Suffering." She nods. "Absolutely, one-hundred percent suffering."

"I don't _want_ him to suffer, Pansy."

"But you want him."

"Yes."

"Then suffering."

His headache has arrived. "Will you explain to me what you're planning here?"

"It's casual, yeah?" At his nod, she continues. "No strings, non-exclusive, easy-breezy. So you have to start sleeping with other people."

"I already told you, Pansy—"

"You don't _actually_ have to do it, you idiot. Just make him _think_ you are."

A light goes on in his mind, and he grins, suddenly elated. "You're a genius."

"I'm aware."

"So, who do I pretend to sleep with?"

Pansy's smile is a slow thing, full of eager mischief. " _Everyone_."

* * *

It is surprisingly easy to pretend to be shagging people.

"Tell him you're busy," Pansy suggests. "That you have"—her face twists into a leer—"company."

The next time Harry accosts Draco in the Ministry hallways, his firmly muscled body pressing against Draco in a way that has his pulse racing, Draco forces himself to place his hands on Potter's broad chest and push him away.

"As much as I'd love to hear where you'd like this to go, I already have plans tonight."

The haze of lust over Harry's eyes fades slightly, replaced by confusion. "What kind of plans?"

"I have company coming over."

He doesn't even have to leer. Harry's face goes carefully neutral, and he steps back, hands disappearing into his pockets. "Oh."

Draco can't decide if he should be offended or flattered by Harry's easy belief. Of course, Draco could pull someone if he wanted, but it's not like he's easy.

Not that Draco's going to let Potter know that. The man had picked him up at a party with hardly more than a slow perusal of his too-green eyes and a small uptick to the corner of his mouth.

"Yes." Draco puts his hands in his pockets so he doesn't pull Harry back against him and give up this charade entirely. "I'm free on Thursday, though."

Potter perks up at the news, but it's less enthusiastic than Draco expects. He adds it to the growing list of mixed signals and steps around Harry.

"See you then," Harry says, voice uncertain. "I guess."

* * *

Potter is nearly animalistic when Draco shows up at Harry's flat the next evening. The door's barely open before Harry pulls Draco inside and slams him against it. Potter slides his hand between the back of Draco's head and the door, cushioning the blow, and then Draco doesn't notice anything but the hard line of Potter's body pressed against his, fingers fumbling for Draco's zip and slipping inside his trousers without any more warning than the soft rasp of metal and a groan that could be his name.

When they're done, Draco a debauched, boneless puddle on the floor with Harry a matching self-satisfied puddle next to him, Draco shakily does his zip back up, tucks his shirt into his trousers, and announces that he has to leave.

"What?" Potter doesn't lift his head from the floor, but he turns to look at Draco, eyes wide, lips puffy and red.

"I'll see you at the Ministry in the morning." His legs shake when he stands, though he does his level best to hide it. "Lovely evening, Harry."

The door thunks against Potter's head when Draco opens it, though he eases his twinge of guilt by reminding himself it was only a _light_ bump.

The next day, of course, is a bit awkward. Harry doesn't exactly lurk around Draco and Ron's office, but he does come by more often than usual. Sometimes he has an excuse, like a case folder clutched under his arm that he forgets to leave behind for Ron to look at. Other times, he's not nearly as subtle. He pokes his head into the room to chat with Ron in a distracted, completely unintelligible manner, and leaves before either Draco or Ron can figure out what in the hell Harry's trying to talk about.

"Did you break my best mate?" Ron asks when Harry leaves for the third time.

"Not intentionally."

"You've done a bloody good job of it for not meaning to." Ron sighs. "Are you two going to get your heads out of your arses about this?"

Draco picks up a folder and flips idly through crime scene photos. "I've no idea what you're talking about, Weasley."

"Right." Another sigh. "That's a no, then."

* * *

While it's clear that his disruption to their usual… not exactly routine, but maybe standard operating procedure has Potter in a tizzy, Draco wants to make sure it wasn't the hit to the head that did it. This time, he's much more subtle in his goading. There's a standing gathering at the Leaky on Fridays after work, and as Draco gets ready, he purposefully does his shirt up one button off. It'll be hidden by his robes for the most part, but if Potter is paying attention, he should notice.

Though the pub is crowded and dark, filled with wizards and witches who want to get pissed after their collective work weeks, Harry zeroes in on Draco almost as soon as he walks into the place.

"Malfoy!" He waves from the back corner where he and their—colleagues? friends? co-conspirators?—everyone else are waiting.

Harry doesn't pull Draco in close, but he makes space for him at the table, shifting further down the bench until Draco can perch there, their thighs touching under the table. The heat of it has him sweating, and when someone passes him a pint, he takes a grateful, heavy drink.

"Where've you been?" Harry has to lean in to be heard, his words brushing against Draco's skin. "You're late."

"I had to run home for a bit." Draco takes another sip, letting his robes gape open. "Nothing to worry about."

"I wasn't worried." Harry's eyes, ever predictable, linger on the curve of Draco's neck before drifting lower. His forehead furrows, and Draco wants to crow in victory.

But Harry doesn't say anything about the misaligned buttons, though Draco knows he's seen them. Instead, he keeps plying Draco with alcohol, switching his pint glass out for a full one when he finishes. His bladder is the first thing to protest, and he struggles his way out from behind the table.

The floor tilts a bit when he walks to the gents, but it stabilizes itself as Draco heads into a stall to take a piss. He's just flushed the loo when he hears the door open, then lock. Since it's not that long since the end of the War, and he's a fairly well-known former Death Eater, Draco reaches for his wand, tipsy brain slowly revving up for attack.

When he steps from the stall into the main part of the bathroom, he finds Potter leaning against the door, his hands pressed against it as he stares at Draco's chest.

"What happened to your shirt?" he asks, voice a little breathless.

Draco looks down, acting as if he's just now noticing. "Oh, I must've missed the button."

"I thought you were able to dress yourself." Potter pushes from the door and stalks towards Draco. "Looks like you might need some help, though."

Head still fogged by too much beer, Draco doesn't know how to respond to the feel of Harry's fingers on his buttons. They're warm and gentle as they undo one button, then another. It's all Draco can do to breathe as the buttons slide through cotton and Potter places his fingers on the pale skin beneath.

"It's not like you to be sloppy," he adds, ghosting his fingers over the muscles of Draco's abdomen. "Perhaps you were distracted by something."

"Like what?" Merlin, his voice sounds like he gargled with gravel and cut glass, it's so rough.

"This." Harry leans in and runs the edge of his teeth over the cords of Draco's neck. Shivering, Draco reaches out and grabs onto Potter's hips for dear life. "Or maybe this." Fingers flick over Draco's nipples, quick snaps of light that have him closing his eyes and groaning.

"What do you think you're doing, Potter?"

"It's Harry." He bites down, gentle but with a hint of danger. "And I think you know exactly what I'm doing."

There's a brief moment where Draco thinks that this is not going to plan at all, and then Harry's fingers slip into the back of Draco's trousers to draw his body closer to Harry's, and thought is swept away on a wave of want so staggering, he's surprised he keeps his feet.

Harry is hard against him, and he guides Draco's hips with his hands, grinding them against each other. Draco lets him lead, lets his muscles go limp and easy as Harry moves Draco's body exactly where he wants it. Other than the hard grasp that Draco has on Harry's hips, he's pliable, easy, molded like clay beneath Harry's hands as he makes something new from Draco's body.

"Touch me." Harry's voice is like satin against Draco's skin. Fingers unclenching, Draco does.

He works Harry's fly open, slides his hands inside to take Harry's heavy cock from his clothes. Wandlessly casting a lube spell, he coats Harry's cock with slick and starts working it, slow and easy, from root to tip. Potter, his head resting in the crook of Draco's shoulder, stares down at where Draco's fingers are wrapped around his dick, and he keeps moving Draco's hips against his own, watching his unveiled prick move against the bulge in Draco's trousers.

Slowly, teasingly, he drags his hands free and undoes Draco's fly. They're both breathing heavily when Harry lines Draco's cock up against his own, when he nudges Draco's hand open to make space for the both of them, and they groan at the touch of hard flesh against hard flesh.

"Look at you," Harry murmurs. "Look how fucking gorgeous you are."

Draco can't breathe, can't think, can't speak. He thrusts against the friction of his own hand, of Potter's cock, of Potter's hand wrapping around Draco's. Orgasm is building in the base of his spine, a deep-seated ache that can only be eased in one way. As if sensing his growing desperation, Harry trails his lips from Draco's neck to his ear and starts whispering.

"Been thinking about this all day," he says, voice quietly wrecked. "About you. About what you do to me. How you make me feel."

A groan wrenches its way free from Draco's throat, burning the way his blood is burning under his skin. The ache in his spine grows with every soft word falling from Harry's lips, until Draco's the one that's falling, coming over their intertwined hands in thick ropes. Harry fucks up into their slickened grasp, moaning Draco's name as he orgasms, his mouth pressed against Draco's pulse as if it's Harry's own heartbeat he's desperately trying to draw back into his body.

They stand there for a long time, catching their breaths and waiting for the orgasms to fade. Harry keeps pressing soft kisses to Draco's neck, and Draco tilts his head to the side, giving the man more room. Eyes shut, head buzzing with endorphins and alcohol, it takes Draco a long time to realize that someone is pounding, rather rudely, at the bathroom door.

"Oi, Malfoy! You'd better not be fucking around in there, or so help me!"

It's fucking Weasley.

"Piss off!" Draco yells back before reluctantly pulling away from Harry, whose lips follow Draco's neck before stopping. His green eyes are a bit glassy and not at all endearing as they blink up at him.

"I'd love to," Weasley shouts back, "but _someone's_ locked the bloody door to the loo!"

Draco rolls his eyes, then moves around Potter to reach the sink. He washes his hands, then casts a quick _Scourgify_ over his cock before tucking it away.

"I heard that! If Harry's in there with you, so help me…"

"Shut up!" Draco turns to Potter and points a still shaky finger at him. "This is your fault."

Harry smiles, clearly proud of himself. "He'll get over it."

"Dammit, Potter!" Weasley bangs on the door again. "I hate you both!"

"No, you don't!" Harry shouts cheerfully back.

Draco does his best not to laugh.

* * *

Harry doesn't know what to do. Draco has him tied up in knots lately (not that he didn't already have Harry tied up in knots, only that it's gotten worse in the last two weeks). If he'd been subtle about sleeping with other people before, Draco's given up any pretense of exclusivity now. He's ogling other men when they're out at lunch or patrolling Diagon Alley. He's slipped his number to at least two delivery men when he and Harry have been lounging at Draco's flat or Grimmauld, winking as the confused men walk away.

It's Saturday afternoon, and it's been three days since he and Draco have "seen" each other. It's the longest they've gone without some sort of contact since this thing started up between them, and while Harry's body might be telling him it's time to get moving, it has needs, dammit, his heart is a giant, sloppy mess that needs coddling.

Which is why his cheek is pressed against Ron and Hermione's kitchen table, and there's a very large, recently emptied, glass of Firewhisky next to his hand.

"Mate," Ron says, sounding a mix of fond and irritated, "you have got to get your shit together."

"But I don't know what to do, Ron."

A loud, gingery sigh. "Yes, you do."

"No, I don't."

"For Merlin's sake, you defeated the Dark Lord. You can talk to Malfoy about your feelings."

"No, I can't. That's a terrible idea."

Ron drags a chair back from the table and falls into it, elbows on the tabletop as he forces Harry to make eye contact. "Explain to me why it's a terrible idea."

"Because he only wants me for my body."

Ron scrubs a hand over his face. "I've seen your body, Harry, and Malfoy's clearly interested in more than that."

"Are you saying I'm not worth objectifying?"

"Yes."

"You're the worst."

"I'm _saying_ "—Ron ruffles Harry's hair—"that Malfoy _likes_ you, you idiot. If you'd take two seconds to pull your head out of your arse, you'd see it, too."

Harry thinks of Draco's wandering gaze, the canceled plans, the slips of paper tucked into hands that aren't Harry's, and he wishes his glass weren't empty. "No, he doesn't. Where's Hermione?"

"Right here," she says as she breezes into the kitchen. "But I'm not getting involved."

"Should've done that," Ron says with a shake of his head. "You've always been the cleverer one."

She smiles and presses a kiss to the top of Ron's head. Harry's heart twinges, wishing that Draco would do that to him.

"What's he complaining about this time?"

"What do you think?"

"I'm right here."

"So, Malfoy, then?" Hermione drapes her arm around Ron's shoulder before leaning into him and sighing. "What's the plan?"

"Drinking myself stupid." Harry pushes his glass towards her, eyes beseeching.

"You could always try to make him jealous," she says offhandedly, reaching for the bottle of Ogden's and pouring him another finger. "If he doesn't have feelings for you, it won't work, and it might help you get him out of your system."

"But I don't want him out of my system." Harry sits up, takes a quick, burning drink, then flops his head back onto the table.

Hermione rolls her eyes. "Pretend you do."

Harry twists his glass around on the table, watching the light catch and refract in the amber liquid.

"Hermione." Ron sounds aghast. "That's terrible advice."

"Would you rather he stays here until your parents arrive for dinner in"—she checks the kitchen clock—"an hour?"

"All right, fair point. Harry, mate. Go figure out how to make your not-boyfriend jealous and get out of my house."

"Fine, fine." Harry finishes the last finger of whisky, then rises from the table with very little grace and quite a bit of self-pity. "But if I can't think of anything, you both have to help."

"Done. Don't mumble when you take the Floo."

He doesn't.

* * *

When Draco arrives at work the next day, Weasley looks exhausted. And while he normally doesn't concern himself with how his partner is doing, with the way that Potter's been responding to Draco's attempts to draw his attention, Draco makes an exception.

"What's wrong with you?" he asks.

Weasley glares at him. "You know precisely what's wrong with me, you prat."

Draco huffs. "I do not."

"I swear…" Weasley turns back to his work, shaking his head. As Draco takes a seat, Weasley's head jerks up, his eyes bright with some emotion Draco's never seen there before. "Did you hear about Harry?"

Draco fights for nonchalance. "What about him?"

"Had a date this weekend."

Draco doesn't swallow his tongue, but it's a near thing. "Fantastic." His heart is racing. "I'm very happy for him."

"Seemed like it went well. He wouldn't stop talking about it."

"Wonderful news." Draco opens a folder on his desk, eyes unfocused as his mind whirls. "Thank you for letting me know."

"That's upside down."

Draco doesn't say anything as he flips the folder over.

* * *

When Pansy pops through the Floo this time, Draco's drunk and miserable.

"Honestly." She flops down on the couch next to him, and he falls over, burying his head in her lap.

"He's dating." His whine is muffled. "Pansy, he's _dating_."

Her fingers are slow and smooth through his hair, and he sinks into the touch.

"So much suffering."

He wants to cry. "What do I do?"

"Well." She sounds apologetic. "I think you might have to talk to him."

Draco curses for a long time, her fingers easing through his hair.

* * *

Harry isn't quite sure what to think when the owl arrives. It's Draco's. He's seen it a hundred times before, carrying letters back and forth from Draco's flat and the Ministry. But it's never arrived at Grimmauld before, and certainly not with a creamy letter, sealed with silver wax and bearing the Malfoy family crest.

"Thank you?" he says, taking it from the owl's pompously extended leg. It gives an imperious hoot before clacking its beak when Harry doesn't open the letter immediately. He fumbles at the seal, finally slipping a finger underneath it and pulling the envelope open.

_Mister Draco Lucius Malfoy cordially requests your company for dinner at L'Étoile Mort on Friday, the fourteenth of April. Please reply at your earliest convenience._

There's no signature, and Harry flips the letter over a handful of times, hoping that there might be more words hidden somewhere on the parchment that would explain what in the bloody hell is going on. The owl hoots again, leg extended.

Harry finds a quill, scrawls a quick _Sure_ beneath the message, and ties it to the owl. It nibbles at the paper, then disappears out the window with a rush of silent wings.

Normally only part way put together, Harry spends the next week slowly but steadily falling to pieces. As the fourteenth draws closer, his stomach becomes a knotted mess, one that isn't eased when he catches glimpses of Draco in the Ministry hallways. He wants to chase after Draco, to pin him in one of their familiar places and force an explanation, but when Ron threatens to hex Harry if he comes by the office again, he backs off. It's only a few more days, he can make it.

As he stares at himself in the mirror—face pale, eyes haunted by dark circles, his hair a finger-combed mess—he doesn't think he can. His outfit, at least, is presentable. An understated, but still stylish, Muggle-style suit in an almost imperceptible pinstripe that hugs his shoulders, it's one of the few sets of clothing that both he and Kreacher approve of.

"Master is finally courting," the house elf says proudly as he stands next to the fireplace, waiting for Harry to step through to the restaurant. "Kreacher thinks you look dashing."

Unsure how to feel about that, Harry nods. "Thank you, Kreacher."

"Master must be a gentleman." Kreacher steps forward and brushes an invisible piece of lint from the hem of Harry's suit jacket. "He must open doors and pull out chairs and order properly."

"How do you order properly?"

Kreacher glares. "Master should have asked sooner. Kreacher does not have time to teach Master now. Kreacher will teach Master when he gets home."

"I'm only joking," Harry says, hoping that Kreacher can't tell when he's lying through his teeth. "I know what I'm doing."

"Good." Kreacher steps back and holds out the jar of Floo powder to Harry. "Master is very lucky that Master Malfoy is willing to let you court him. Master Malfoy is an exemplary wizard."

Harry sighs, feeling like a man about to walk in front of a firing squad. "Yes, he really is."

* * *

Draco is already sitting at a table, looking as posh and gorgeous as ever. He's also opted to wear a suit, though his is in a soft dove grey that does wonderful things for his eyes, the black dress shirt underneath somehow highlighting and hiding the muscled expanse of his chest and shoulders. When he catches sight of Harry, he stands, his napkin crumpled in his fist.

"Harry," he says.

They both reach for Harry's chair, then stop, then reach again. Eventually, Harry takes the wood in his clammy hand and pulls it from the table. Draco doesn't seem to know what to do, standing next to the table as Harry sits. Draco goes to push the chair in, but Harry's already done it, and now, Draco's standing above Harry's shoulder, smelling like high-class sin, and Harry is a heartbeat away from pushing his chair back from the table and running out the door.

"Thank you for coming." Draco's voice knocks Harry from his panic.

"Yeah." He coughs. "Yeah, of course." He desperately needs a drink.

"I've taken the liberty of ordering for you," Draco continues as a waiter approaches holding a bottle of very expensive looking wine. "I thought you might not want to fiddle around with the menu."

"Is it in French?"

"Of course."

"Then you'd be right."

It tricks a grin from Draco, who takes a sip from his now full wine glass. Harry does the same a moment later, though his drink might better be described as a gulp.

He's done a lot of terrifying things in his life. He's faced off against Voldemort any number of times, hidden from Snatchers and Death Eaters, literally died. And going on what appears to be a _real date_ with Draco Malfoy still somehow manages to top the list.

The food comes out on plain white china, each dish carefully arranged into beautiful colors and shapes, smelling divine. But since Harry's stomach has been replaced by the Gordian Knot, he's only able to take a few bites of each course before he thinks he'll be sick.

Their conversation is stilted and formal, and Harry does his best to keep a light and easy smile on his face, praying that the awkwardness is all on his part. When the dessert course comes out—a rich chocolate cake coated in ganache and fresh raspberries—Draco ruins the illusion while Harry's taking a sip of water.

"You look constipated, Potter." He cuts into the cake with his fork, eyes trained on his plate rather than Harry's choking face. "Will you please just spit it out already?"

"Is this a date?" He can feel himself turning red as soon as the words tumble from his mouth.

Draco looks up, fork halfway to his mouth. "Yes. Obviously."

"Why is this a date?"

Draco takes his bite of cake, chewing carefully as he gazes at Harry. The flush in his cheeks grows worse.

"Because I'd like to date you."

"You… Wait, _what?_ "

"If that's such a disagreeable thought to you, I'm certain I can find someone el—"

"No." Harry can't breathe. The knot in his stomach is unfurling at a nauseating rate. "No, no. Not disagreeable at all. Fuck."

The corner of Draco's mouth quirks up. "Are you okay?"

"No, not at all." He thinks mournfully of all of the food he'd sent away half-eaten. "You couldn't have led with that?"

"I thought it was obvious at this point."

"Well, it bloody wasn't. Merlin." His glass is empty. "Is there more wine?"

"There is back at mine."

"Can we go, then?"

Draco's full-on grinning now, and it's beautiful and heart-wrenching, and Harry cannot stand it. He waves down a waiter, much to Draco's embarrassment, and requests the check. A hazy five minutes later, Harry's dragging Draco towards the fireplace, and they Floo to Draco's flat in a swirl of flames and anticipation.

But when he stumbles through to Draco's flat, the man is standing in front of his couch, hands in his pockets, eyes trained on the floor.

"What's wrong?" Harry blurts out, uncertain whether he should move closer or step away.

"I don't…" Draco runs a hand through his perfectly coiffed hair, sending it into disarray. "I don't want to have sex. Not tonight."

Harry exhales slowly. "Thank fuck."

"Wait, what?"

"I'd really like to get out of this suit"—Harry takes a hesitant step forward, then another—"and put on the wireless or the telly, and just hold you. If that's all right." He's pulling Draco's hands into his own, twining their fingers together as he draws Draco close. "If we're dating."

Draco stares at their intertwined fingers silently before they tighten on Harry's. "Yes."

They fall asleep on the couch a few hours later, a replay of last week's Puddlemere United match on the wireless, both of them wearing some of Draco's pyjamas—Draco only laughed a little bit at how far they came down around Harry's feet. Draco is laid on top of Harry's chest, cradled in the vee of his legs, and Harry's fingers are threaded through Draco's hair.

Which is how Pansy finds them the next morning, two cups of coffee in her hands as she comes through the Floo.

"Draco, you've got to tell me—"

Harry mumbles something in his sleep, his fingers sliding from Draco's hair to his upper back. Pansy sets the coffees on the table and excuses herself without a word before reaching for some more Floo powder before calling out "Granger-Weasley residence!" into the flames.

Hermione's face pops into view. "Did it work? Please tell me it worked."

"It worked!" Pansy cackles when Ron's face peers in over his wife's shoulder.

"Thank Godric for that. I was about ready to hex the bollocks off the both of them, the way they were carrying on."

"I'm calling dibs on Best Man," Pansy says, pointing at Ron. "This was my idea, I get the credit."

"Look, if I don't have to watch them making cow eyes at each other all the bloody time, you can be the Best Man, the Maid of Honor, and the officiant."

"And you owe me ten galleons."

"Worth it."

Pansy completely agrees.

**Author's Note:**

> The title is part of a quote from one of my favorite romcoms, _When Harry Met Sally_. The full quote is this:
> 
> "I came here tonight because when you realize you want to spend the rest of your life with somebody, you want the rest of your life to start as soon as possible."
> 
> Thanks to the Drarry server for cheering me on, and for slytherco for the wonderful prompt.


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